


a needle in the night

by LoosePilgrim



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Magic, Mild Suicidal Thoughts, Multi, Mystery, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slow Burn, also kind of fuses the book and the series, and not from the perspective of the main character, but not like a ton, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoosePilgrim/pseuds/LoosePilgrim
Summary: Every night, Childermass finds himself at the mercy of violent nightmares, all featuring the same antagonist—John Segundus. Shaken by the contrast between his friend in the waking world and the terrifying threat in his dreams, Childermass hides the nightmares and their effect on his peace of mind.Meanwhile, people in the nearby village are also experiencing a rash of sleep disturbances. Despite little evidence to suggest magic is at work, the magicians of Starecross are called on to investigate. What could be causing so much misery, and what can possibly be done to stop it?





	a needle in the night

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. in this fic I really wanted to explore what vulnerability could look like in a character like Childermass, who seems pretty invulnerable. if the reader is so inclined, I'd love to hear how they think that theme is progressing. 
> 
> 2\. kind of borrowing a little from both the book and the series, so see it as a fusion of those canons I guess.
> 
> 2\. fic title is from the song "Relay Runner" by Loma. chapter title is from "Red Sea, Black Sea" by Shearwater. 
> 
> 3\. with gratitude to fasach.

_The sky is iron: flat, hard, and cold. All around him Childermass hears the pealing of bells, and he cannot make out the time because they ring ceaselessly. He is in Hanover Square, the sparse snow around him having taken on a greasy, gritty look with all the tracked-up mud and detritus of London._

_Childermass shifts and feels glass crunch under his feet, sees a vague figure approaching. It is raising its blurry hand, and in its hand is, very clearly, a pistol. Glancing over his shoulder, Childermass finds he is utterly alone in the Square. He knows this, yet why does he expect to see Norrell near him? Why is it odd to think the pistol should be aimed at him, when it so clearly is?_

_He looks back. At first the figure had seemed yards away, shrouded in dim daylight and wind-borne snowfall. Now it is within mere feet, and Childermass recognizes it._

_Segundus, dressed in his usual shabby but clean habit, his face carrying the same pleasant openness it most always does. Childermass knows what faces Segundus can pull in anxiety, in irritation, has been the recipient of such expressions on more than a few occasions. Here in the Square, his face is as mild as the frigid wind is not, and changes not at all upon cocking the pistol. The dark mouth of the barrel opens toward Childermass’s chest._

_Childermass finds his limbs feel wooden, unresponsive. He can imagine his hands reaching to knock aside the barrel, his legs moving to leap out of the way, his voice calling for help — but he can make none of it happen. The bells tolling all around feel like a slow echo of his own hammering heart._

_Segundus is speaking to him. Childermass cannot make out the words over the bells’ increasing volume, but the words are delivered with a warm, patient smile. Nothing has ever been more terrifying than this smile. The pistol fires._

_It feels as though an enormous, invisible hand of ice has gripped Childermass’s right arm, and is fighting mightily against a twin grip of fire on his left arm. The sky is pushing down against the front of his body, the earth pressing up. He is lying on the cobblestones of Hanover Square, or the sand of a desert, or a hard, frozen heath. Glancing to look at the wound, Childermass sees no blood or tissue, only a thumb-sized hole. It is perfectly smooth, not ragged as a bullet hole should be, and through the tunnel it has left in his shoulder Childermass imagines he can something very impossible: the green of fresh-growing herbs, flowers, grass. A garden?_

_Segundus kneels beside him, bends until his mouth grazes Childermass’s ear, and speaks. Childermass still cannot hear him, only knows the man is speaking because of the movement of lips, the exhale of pronunciation. He watches as Segundus lays the pistol along his sternum. It feels very like a cat that has curled on his chest to sleep, it is warm, it breathes—_

Childermass woke like fire sparking on tinder. His body ached as if he had been running all night; sweat streamed into his eyes, stung his lips. 

He could not recall ever feeling such terror, at least not since he was a child, in the early days after Black Joan had been hanged, before he had learned to be Childermass and not Johnny. In this dream, fear, pure and entire, had stripped him naked, flayed. Minutes passed, and his limbs still trembled. Childermass took stock of his surroundings, in the hope of quieting himself. 

A room in Starecross. In the gloom he could make out small points of color and light: the cheerful yellow basin and pitcher, the silver bowl used for casting, the two chairs with eccentric paisley patterns sitting before a dark fireplace, and the east-facing windows, showing only the haziest suggestion of pink sunrise. The largest and softest bed he’d ever slept in. 

The residents of Starecross had taken to calling this room his, and he supposed it must be. No one used it when he was not there, and these days he slept there more than any one other place. 

Considering it pointless, and likely impossible, to try returning to sleep, Childermass dressed in his oldest clothes and moved quietly through the sleeping house, to the stables. Gavin and Malcolm were already underway mucking out the stalls. They nodded good morning and carried on; Childermass toiling in the stables was not uncommon. They knew they had earned the man’s trust in the care of Brewer, so they did not believe this labor beneath his station was a comment on their abilities. 

“Reckon he just likes to remind himself what it feels like to have dirt under his nails, not just ink,” Childermass had overheard the Scotsman telling his son once. 

Childermass rolled up his sleeves and set to work, letting the clearing of droppings and hay to do the work of steadying him. Only then did he allow his thoughts to return to the dream. 

There were two reasons he could not shake it off like the nonsense any man’s mind might conjure up. The first was that the physical sensations lingered. Not just the pain in his shoulder—it ached occasionally, as old wounds may do—but the hollow feeling of a neat little hole punched clean through his chest. Childermass could not help stopping to touch the solid flesh every few minutes, like a soldier reaching for a phantom limb. 

The second reason was that this was not the first occurrence of such dreams. Since arriving at Starecross from London four days ago, his sleep had been consumed by dreams of a similar nature. Similar, but not the same. Each night the same face, a different violence: stabbed, stoned, thrown from a high window. The first night, John Segundus had forced Childermass’s hand into the sitting room fire. Both watched the skin blister, bubble, and blacken, Childermass screaming silently, Segundus smiling as pleasantly as if they were discussing the weather over tea. 

Not knowing what to make of five nights of such dreams, Childermass moved on to brushing out Brewer’s coarse, dark coat, tried to think of nothing but the motion of bristles over mud-dark hide. Shortly a voice called behind him. Childermass turned to see Segundus coming from the direction of the Hall, felt his insides stagger at the sight. 

“Oh—good morning, Mr. Childermass! I see you are already engaged with the man I’m looking for.” He greeted the grooms warmly as well.

Under Segundus’s gaze, he felt as skinless as he had in the dreams. He wanted to cover himself, but he was already clothed. He cursed himself for the feeling. “I beg your pardon…?

Segundus laughed. “By man I mean of course our mutual friend here.” He gestured to Brewer, who was insistently nudging the air in his direction. Segundus appeared as close to sly as a guileless man could and drew a green apple from the pocket of his coat. “I do hope you will not be cross—really, I cannot see why you should be, though I do not know horses as well as you do—but every once in a while, I’ve been coming round to say hello and—”

Childermass could not help teasing. “And winning Brewer away from me.” 

“Not at all! It is only that, well…” He paused, cutting one of the apples into neat slices and feeding them slowly to the big horse. “It is only that I see Olivia and Xerxes are well-liked among the household. They are always sure to be visited by the students in their off hours or snuck a stray sugar cube. I do not see Brewer often receiving the same attention. It seems a shame.”

Mrs. Lennox had impressed on Segundus the need for a coach, and one had been delivered shortly before the school’s formal opening, along with two glossy bays. Their bright coloring and friendly demeanors ingratiated them to everyone at Starecross, in contrast to Brewer’s homeliness and tendency to nip rather vigorously.

Childermass switched out the curry comb for a body brush. “In defense of Olivia and Xerxes, I cannot see that Brewer has much to recommend him to the good people of Starecross. They are rarely in need of a great ugly brute who’s as like to knock you over as look at you.” He patted Brewer’s flank; they had an understanding, hard-earned. 

Segundus frowned and let Brewer lick the juice from the flat of his palm. “I disagree—he has much to recommend him. His willfulness is the mark of a strong mind. His selectivity in who he favors means his affections run that much more deeply. Anyone would say these are qualities to admire in a human, so why not a horse.”

Childermass did not think _anyone_ would count these as virtues, but he said nothing. 

“I suppose he is a bit rude”—Brewer confirmed this by nipping insistently at Segundus’s pocket for another apple—“but I do not find him to be so ugly as you say.”

For a few long moments, Childermass purposefully did not look at the man feeding his horse. Perhaps there was another reason he could not shake the effects of the dreams: of any man or woman in England, he could not think of a person less likely to threaten or do him harm than John Segundus. He would sooner suspect Mr. Honeyfoot of violence. 

Yet could he not picture a pistol in Segundus’s hand as easily as a shiny apple? Childermass finally glanced at the man, and forced his voice to be steady. “So you sneak down to spoil my horse, leaving me with his surly attitude when I do not come bearing treats.”

Segundus rolled his eyes, a gesture Childermass felt certain he would not have made close to a year ago. He looked Childermass in the face and frowned again. “If you do not mind me saying so Mr. Childermass, you look quite exhausted. Did you not sleep well?”

Childermass shifted his stiff shoulders and replaced the bucket of combs and brushes in its proper place. “Not at all, Mr. Segundus—I slept like the dead. Now, shall we see about some breakfast?”

 

***  
. 

The days after Vinculus’ debut to the York Society were chaotic, as much was in this time people were beginning to call “The Revival of English Magic”. Throughout the country, it was disheartening to see that many magicians, new and old, were still allying themselves either to Jonathan Strange’s camp or to Mr. Norrell’s, despite there being no evidence to suggest either man was likely to return soon and weigh in on politics. Mostly the contention was kept to public debates and articles, but there was worry among the government that these magical disagreements now had the power to become something more than academic. 

The remaining party loyalty frustrated Childermass to no end. He saw Vinculus as proof that English magic owed little to either magician, as smitten as each had been with their own rigid correctness. What did it matter one’s position on the Raven King, or books of magic, or bloody anything, when one had only to reach out their hand and grasp the sheer, limitless possibility magic in England now offered? 

But as the Reader he was still green and could not yet explain his half-understood notions of what the Book contained—gleaned from his visions of the chill, grey lands under the magic-speaking sky. He had not truly Read yet, nor did he know how. What was clear to him, though, was how critical it would be to make the contents of the King’s Book known before a new Norrell or Strange emerged and began to dictate a single necessary course for English magicians to follow. It was a thought that dogged him in those first months of trying to read Vinculus. 

Childermass had found comfort and support in this, however surprisingly, from the magicians of York and Starecross. 

After the first night of the Society’s reinstatement, while most of the magicians were examining Vinculus, John Segundus had approached him. Childermass was uneasy. When they had last met a few weeks ago, he had been surprised at how easily the other man had accepted him into his home, though he had later credited this to his offer of assistance to Lady Pole and nothing more. Surely, he would remember his mistreatment at Childermass’s hands now?

Childermass certainly did. He could recall the set of Segundus’s shoulders on the day he arrived at Starecross to warn him off, how with every passing moment of their exchange his posture wilted a bit more. It was a mirror of his expression all those years ago on the steps of the Minster, wonder at the magic performed slowly washed away by a beginning realization of the lengths Norrell would go to in order to exert his will over others. And, both times, it had been Childermass who delivered the blow to the man’s love for magic.

Yet, at the Old Starre, Segundus did not seem agitated to see him. He appeared relaxed and recovered from the ailments brought on by the fairy’s magic. With two pots of ale in his hands, he offered one to Childermass. “You left Starecross to find Strange and Norrell … and return with the King’s Book.”

“I found him hanging dead from a tree on the moors. It was understandably diverting.” 

Segundus chuckled. “Certainly. But what I do not understand is the return, in fact. Why have you chosen to bring Vinculus here, to show us all the King’s Book?”

This confused Childermass. Segundus was not dull, yet the answer to his question seemed self-evident. 

“He is the only book of magic remaining in England. Naturally I want him to be seen by the magicians of England.”

“You say ‘naturally’, sir. Yet did you not spend half your time in Norrell’s service helping him deprive English citizens of even the chance to study magic?” 

Childermass could not help but smile, and he knew it was not a nice one. He could have explained himself or offered an apology, or an excuse. He did not. “I intend to study Vinculus, and allow others to do the same, and to share any findings widely.”

Segundus regarded him for a long moment, then nodded as if in approval. Childermass despised that he felt pleased to receive it. 

The two men stood for a while, sipping their spiced ale in silence, watching members of the York Society discover Vinculus’ ticklish spots. 

“And your plan after this? Will you tour Vinculus throughout the country?”

Childermass sighed. “Now that is the trouble, as I see it. Magic has shaken the country and shows no signs of stopping—Parliament will be looking for ways to stabilize. John Uskglass has become synonymous with rebellion, after Strange, and the machine-breakers. I fear that, were word to spread to London that a book of the Raven King’s words was making its way throughout the magical societies, Vinculus and what he holds might be in danger.”

Segundus considered his words. “Perhaps it is paranoid of both of us, but I agree. The King’s Book must stay here, in Yorkshire, at least for now. You will both need a place to stay.” 

“The Old Starre is fine for that purpose, I suppose.” 

“Perhaps. Though, for several reasons, you might consider Starecross. That it is already set up as a place of magical study, for one.”

“And its remoteness, for another—particularly from taverns, pubs, and gambling houses.” Childermass eyed Vinculus, who was being passed a third (or was it a fourth) ale. 

However sensible the plan seemed, Childermass could not help feeling skeptical. “Your invitation is generous, and appreciated. I wonder if you know what it is you really offer, though, inviting two unrespectable men into you school and home.” 

Segundus scoffed, sharply, tired. “I find I’ve grown quite tired of talk of respectability. I never wish to hear magicians—nor indeed anyone—spoken of as respectable or not again. Let magic be for good or for bad, exceptional or ordinary, but never again qualified by decency.” 

Childermass felt pinned by the man’s gaze. Segundus’s brown eyes had not lost their customary warmth, but they had taken on a strength, like oak. “You tire of it as well, Mr. Childermass, do you not?”

The next day, Childermass and Vinculus packed and traveled to Starecross, and were given rooms in its rambling hall. A year later the unrespectable men were still welcome there. 

*** 

 

If he ate lunch, Childermass ate it alone. Dinner he spent with the teachers and students and, as was his custom, he took his breakfast in the kitchen, seated in the corner where he would not be in the way. In the bustle and heat, Childermass was content with only coffee, toast, and whatever eggs or sausages Florian and his cooks had prepared.

He would listen to the servants, attend to their concerns, griefs, and gossip, watch them come and go about their work. These were his people, as much as magicians were, and he liked that they spoke to him as if he could not be anything else but their own.

These days, it wasn’t uncommon for Segundus to breakfast with Childermass in the kitchen, if they wanted to continue a discussion they’d been having the night before, or if Childermass had returned very late from a trip and Segundus wanted to compare news and discoveries right away. Naturally Segundus became better acquainted with the servants this way, and the practice was common enough that he began occasionally remarking to Childermass things like “It’s Daisy’s birthday in a week—I thought I might pick her up some of that calico she mentioned” or “Did Frederick’s sister deliver already?”

There was much remaining for Childermass to relate to Segundus from his months-long stay in London, but Segundus was still thinking of horses and had begun their breakfast by describing a story from his childhood, when he had first learned to ride. 

“You’re having me on, sir.” 

“No, truly—I learned to ride backwards first! Something about being up so high, I was terrified of feeling the world rush at me like that. My father reasoned that perhaps watching it move away would be less frightening. And he was right! I rode that way for a month before I got the courage to turn around.”

Childermass snorted into his cup of coffee. “Perhaps we should schedule an appointment with Brewer. I would very much like to see your trick-riding, Mr. Segundus.”

“Yes, I think you will be very impressed, Mr. Childermass,” he said archly, spreading marmalade on his toast. “And when did you learn to ride? You must have had a very good teacher.”

“When I was eighteen. I lived for a time with a family of horse breeders in the Limousin.” He chuckled. “I had never even touched a horse before then.”

Seeing Segundus’ expression—astonished, but not shocked—brought a warmth to his cheeks. It happened from time to time in this man’s company, and Childermass did not like that he liked it.

“In France? How exceptional! And I suppose you learned to speak French, as well?”

He shrugged.

Segundus laughed kindly, shaking his head. “Of course you do.” Chewing his toast thoughtfully for a moment, he said next, “You were eighteen…what in God’s name brought you to the middle of France? My goodness, that must have been during the Revolution!”

Childermass did something then that he rarely allowed himself to do. He hesitated.

He imagined telling Segundus about deserting, how at any moment he could be executed quite legally. Imagined telling him all that came before the moment he jumped into the bay, and then everything leading to their first meeting at Hurtfew. He thought of the questions Segundus might ask, and how the answers would pile like sharp, tar-black stones, constructing a tower in the shape of his life. A tower built to surely keep out any chance of continued friendship, whose foundations already required Segundus to ignore all the ways Childermass had harmed him in the past.

Perhaps it was a failing on the part of his imagination, but Childermass could not conjure a scenario in which he did not watch Segundus be overtaken by disgust, or disappointment, or betrayal at his story. 

Childermass realized he had been silent a long moment, and forced a casual smile. “A story for another time, Mr. Segundus.” 

Segundus looked as if he wanted to ask why. He did not. 

“I assure you it’s much duller than you are picturing. Certainly not so interesting as our talk from yesterday – I must finish telling you of Dr. Bandi’s suggestions on Norman tapestries.”

As he continued, Childermass met the other man’s eyes, and saw no suspicion or doubt, only…he did not wish to give a name to what it was he hoped he saw there.

 

***

 

_The orchard if full of late afternoon light, as if some delicate painterly hand has come to gild every leaf and apple of every tree, every blade of grass, even the clouds overhead. Dappled light scatters and reforms as breezes send the branches dancing. In the distance, he hears children play and shout – Leonce’s brothers and sister, cousins? Is it a holiday? They will surely be chided if they do not get back to their chores soon. The scent of sun-warmed earth, of country air, of animals, of green and growing things is everywhere._

_By all evidence it should not feel as if Childermass’s body is half-submerged in icy water. Yet it does. He shakes. He feels frost-bitten in his belly, his bones. He tastes seawater. Looking down, he sees his feet are bare, and that he is wet, and dripping into the grass below. Someone is calling his name. Not his name, exactly. Not his name, but one he was happy to go by for a time. Yet even the voice’s laughing tone chills him with alarm._

_He turns to look at who is calling him and finds he is standing in the library at Hurtfew, syrup-golden sun replaced by gloom, lit only by dusty candlelight. Segundus is seated at his Childermass’s old desk, shuffling the cards of Marseilles. He lays them out in a spread, but from where he stands Childermass cannot see them. He wants to ask the man something, though he does not know which question to begin with._

_Segundus steps abruptly into his view, appearing from one side of the room to the other in a blink. He crosses an arm like a bar across Childermass’s chest and presses him against one of the bookcases. The carvings of ivy, leaves, and vines have come to life, the roots, branches, and berries taking on movement and color, gliding like snakes all around him._

_Segundus laughs softly, as if fondly remembering an old joke between friends. He is very close, and his breath steams where it reaches Childermass’s frozen skin. He longs to cry out in terror, but still cannot seem to open his mouth. He is drowning. He is dying of thirst. He is standing in a room nearly as familiar to him as his own body and he is lost._

_The pearl-handled knife in Segundus’s hand is both surprising and inevitable. It finds its way to Childermass’s face and drags itself down his cheek. Childermass imagines a page being slowly torn from a book._

_“You should know that I am not alone in this undertaking,” says Segundus softly. He raises the knife up, and Childermass can see his reflection in it multiplied – pale in the steel of the blade; scattered across the pearl; trembling in the blood, ready to drop –-_

Childermass was very nearly unable to keep himself from crying out. Suddenly awake, he turned his face into the pillow to stop whatever sound was forthcoming. He did not yell, but the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears, felt so loud he was sure it would bring down the walls of the house. 

Until his breathing slowed and evened, Childermass did not move. Beyond the labored breathing, every muscle in his body tensed to keep him still. He tried to think of nothing, succeeded only by reciting in his head the story of the Cumbrian Charcoal-Burner. When he came to the end of that story he began again with the tale of the Cornish Witch, and then the Contest of the Hollies, and then the Finding of the Lost Bracelet. He recalled to himself every story of the Raven King he could think of, almost like prayer, until it was light enough and the house began stirring, when he washed, dressed, and went downstairs, and only then did he stop shaking.


End file.
